


Not Knowing

by DictionaryWrites



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bondage, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Non-Sexual Kink, Rope Bondage, Submission, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22093318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: It starts with the ties on his hands.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 15
Kudos: 166





	Not Knowing

It starts with the ties on his hands.

The rope slides slowly about the skinny, obvious bones at his wrists, collected against the small of his back, and he feels the warm shift of Elias’ hands against his arms as he tugs the rope into place, making a neat, tight knot. The rope digs pleasantly into his skin, and Jon feels himself softly exhale.

His ankles are next. Neatly bound, tightly – tight enough that he feels the dig of the rope against him, not tight enough that it squeezes painfully. Not yet, anyway. Later on, he’ll feel stiff, but for now…

More rope, around his middle, his arms bound against his sides, the knot in the centre of his back and making him sigh. Elias pulls Jon to face him, then, puts his knuckles against the base of Jon’s chin, makes Jon look up at him.

Jon’s mouth is dry, but his body is relaxing already, going soft and easy under the ropes that keep him bound.

“You know what comes next,” Elias says softly, his breath hot against Jon’s lips. “I decide what you know, now. I decide.”

“You decide,” Jon echoes, slightly dreamily, sounding like he’s not quite with it. He doesn’t think he is.

The blindfold is tight over his eyes. The ear plugs slide into his ears, leaving him with plush, infinite silence and blackness that surrounds him: he does not hear, does not see, cannot _know_. He can’t know anything, like this, can’t know anything except the bite of the rope against his flesh, and the featherlight dance of Elias’ fingers over his bare skin.

Elias lays him on his belly over his lap, his face pressed against the muscle of Elias’ thigh, and he breathes slowly, impossibly relaxed, as Elias… does something. Jon doesn’t know what: it isn’t for him to know. He knows that usually, one of Elias’ hands is free to stroke Jon’s hair, or move playful fingertips up and down the bare skin of his back: perhaps Elias is reading, the book held neatly in his other hand. After a while, Jon feels the tray on top of his arse, his lower back, and he knows Elias is doing paperwork with Jon as a desk, and he…

Floats.

He doesn’t know what it is Elias is doing, what paperwork he is pursuing. He doesn’t know what Elias is thinking, does not know what is happening in the Institute at large – he does not know, as he usually does, what everyone is up to without wishing to know, does not know without wanting to all that goes on.

He knows nothing.

Elias knows: knowing is Elias’ burden.

Jon floats.

\--

It is later that Jon is… hanging.

He does not stand, although he could. He has allowed his knees to go weak, allowed himself to hang from the bindings around his wrists, and his arms ache, his head lolled loose and heavy against his arm. His eyes are closed beneath the blindfold, and he floats on the silent blackness, feeling the ache in his shoulders, the drag of the rope at his wrists, around his ankles.

He moans when the hand touches his thigh, stroking the bare skin. Perhaps it is Elias’ hand: perhaps it is not. It does not matter that Jon does not know – it’s not his place to know, not now.

He feels the moan more than he hears it. Feels it eke out from the base of his throat, feels the vibrations of it, and does not really hear it—

Fingers brush his nipples, now, and he whimpers at the thrill of sensation, feels his lips form the word, although he does not mean to, he does not think. _Please_, he says. He does not heard the word. He does not know what it is he means, what he might mean, what he has ever meant, what anything means. It is not for him to know.

His wrists are let down, and he falls forward, collapses against the body there to catch him. His knees are still weak, his every limb aching, his body tired and overwrought and fatigued and so completely, completely relaxed.

A hand on his hip, another beneath his arm. He is lifted, carried, until he is laid down on a soft, soft bed, on comfortable sheets, plush blankets.

Lips brush his, and Jon is so relaxed he can’t even kiss back, just lets the mouth come against his, lets the tongue flick over his lip. He sighs, breathlessly, but when fingers go to the blindfold over his eyes, he is aware of the moan of protest that bubbles from the base of his throat.

The fingers come away again.

He knows it is Elias, when he is pulled against his breast: he _smells_ him, smells Elias’ subtle, expensive aftershave and the scent of paper and old-fashioned ink. He sighs against Elias’ neck, falls closer against him, nose pressed into the crook of his shoulder.

He sleeps deeply, so deeply he feels he will never wake up.

When Elias wakes him, it is by slowly peeling away the rope, the blindfold, the ear plugs: it is by soaking him in his own senses, as though lowering Jon into an uncomfortably hot bath.

There are worse ways to wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to hit up [my ask on Tumblr.](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/ask) Requests open.
> 
> I have a Magnus Archives discord! [Join here!](https://discord.gg/c9aZWDz)


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